


The Afghanistan Connection

by sobefarrington



Category: Justified, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Gen, M/M, War times, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobefarrington/pseuds/sobefarrington





	1. Chapter 1

Sherified  
The Afghanistan Connection

John has been working as a military doctor for nearly a year, serving his country from a far. Patching up battle wounds and trying to mend the scars of those fighting the front lines. The hospital set up was less what he was accustomed to back home. He missed his equipment, the facility in London, his co-workers. Now all he had was a tan, a constant stomach ache and a pain in his chest he couldn’t diagnose. 

Thursday was when it happened. John could never get the hang of Thursdays. He had been in the field for months and finally found some resolve in being relegated to a temporary tented hospital in the middle of the desert. He had charge of his ward, and oversaw the worst cases. Doctor Watson had the most experience both saving the soldiers that were brought to his care and fighting the enemy alongside them.

He thought he’d seen it all, until that Thursday…

“What do we have here?” John asked, looking down at the young man who was being jostled by the movement of the stretcher he was on.

He was alive, visibly breathing, and covered in blood. Be it his own or someone else’s.

“We found him just before he passed out, trying to pull the bullet out himself. He mumbled something incoherent before we lost him. Tags say Gutterson.”

The soldiers put the bloodied man onto a bed near the front of the tent, where the worst cases stayed. The two men set their sights on the exit and headed for them without another word.

“Right. Thanks men. That was, that was really helpful.”

John sighed and pulled the blood-tacked camo jacket off the wounded man, revealing the twenty-something light tanned skin smothered in its own red-brown hemoglobin. The bullet that took the sandy blond haired man’s life in its hands was from a hand gun. It was a small bullet, but it had curved into the poor American, and rested in a place too difficult to reach with a standardized first aid kit this Gutterson would have been issued upon his deployment. Watson had seen minor injuries become full-fledged major problems because a soldier had tried to ‘fix it themselves’.

Two nurses traveled in on either side of the bed, one of them hooking an IV up to the injured soldier and another helped in removing the man’s jacket and shirt.

John cleaned the man up all he could, uncovering the wound for all its glory.

“Such a small hole for so much blood.” One of the male nurses spoke.

John huffed a yeah and reached for the tray of instruments. He pulled a thin, long pair of tweezers from its place and pressed his free hand to the man’s stomach.

Blood that had stopped flowing started again as Gutterson’s body reached to the touch, his legs tensing and feet shaking, his shoulders pushing back against the table and his rose and slammed back again and again. The second nurse kept watch of the man, keeping him from hurting himself any more than he already had, until John had felt the bullet.

“Get ready men.”

Watson reached in with the tweezers, pushing and prodding around internal organs and intestine until he had found the bullet with his other hand. The tweezers clenched around the small, contorted piece of metal and pulled it out as quickly and carefully as he could. One nurse gave the man a series of three injections while the other assisted the doctor with controlling the bleeding and closing the wound.

John turned to ask the soldier to his left to bring him a small bag of ice, but the nurse was already on his way to get it. He returned with it as Gutterson settled, the second of the three needles doing its job at dulling the pain. Watson sterilized and bandaged the wound before placing the ice over the patch. 

“Shall I –“

“Yes, yes. In a half hour. Thank you Private.”

John knew their routine as much as the other man did. Checking on the patient every thirty minutes until he pulled out of his temporary sleep was routine for the hospital. John especially.

The nurses left as John pulled the thin military grade sheet up over the officer. He draped the blanket over his shoulders and made a note on the white board at the foot of the cot. GUTTERSON, he marked in all caps, Shot – Abdomen, Right Side. Bullet Recovered. John checked his watch. THURS – 15:42

The nurse called him from across the room. Another was being brought in. more gunshot victims. Watson turned his attention to the man he’d just fixed and spoke.

“Until morning Gutterson.”


	2. Dreams vs. Reality

Sherified  
Dreams vs. Reality

Tim Gutterson didn’t dream. He never dreamt. In all of his adult life he couldn’t recall one instance in which his unconscious mind wandered into the land of imagination.   
So this was definitely a first.

He lay flat on his stomach, head propped up slightly with an eye on his scope. The target had been acquired twice in the last hour, but the conditions left something to be desired.

The sun beat down at maximum capacity in the dessert, giving Tim a reason to sweat. He was uncomfortable in his crudely dug sand pit, barely concealed by a medium sized stone and a camouflage tarp. His surroundings weren’t ideal for hiding but it was what he had to work with. Lately Tim had learned to cope with what he was given.

The tarp that draped him ruffled as he adjusted himself to the sand once more. In his dreams hindsight, it was probably this movement that gave him away, but there wasn’t much he could do about that now. He had a mission, and he was determined to see it through.

A breeze caught him as it drifted over, ruffling the tarp so slightly. He took a firm hold of his weapon, gripping the gun and repositioning the butt at his shoulder, resting his finger on the trigger, still watching through the sight.

His target moved about, crossing behind an opening in the tent. 

Tim heard talking, which had been happening more often than usual, leading him to believe that this wasn’t his current reality. He did his best to put the voices out of his head, focusing on the task at hand.

The opposition didn’t seem to notice him, or be aware that he was a target. If he was aware he wasn’t worried about it. Tim gulped. He should have been worried.

He took note of it all again as the wind died down and changed direction.

The target moved from one room to another, stopping this time in front of one of the massive picture windows. He spoke to a colleague with his back to the glass. 

Tim took a breath in, preparing to shoot. One bullet to break the glass, one to break the man. The wind calmed to a gentle breeze as Tim aimed through the scope. His target was spot on and his finger moved to the trigger when-

“I need the Levetiracetam NOW.”

John’s stern tone cleared the room of any liveliness and brought the seriousness of the task at hand to the forefront. 

Patient Gutterson was having a severe seizure, his body convulsing in the most intense, rapid jolts. A needle was placed in the good doctor’s hand. He tore the plastic nub end off in his teeth and injected the entire needle into the IV drip. 

Watson watched as the medication took hold, slowing and stopping the convulsions within a minute. He held the man’s wrist in his hands, relying on himself rather the machinery to check his pulse, holding his arm securely as his heart rate returned to normal.

John placed Tim’s arm back at his side and readjusted the thin government-provided sheets to cover the man as much as possible. Even in the dry desert heat he was cool to the touch. John made note of that on his clip board before placing it once more at the foot of the bed.

He looked restful, Tim did, and John found it puzzling. Human nature was an odd thing to behold. And it still boggled his mind how someone who was so sick and hurt could look as though they were at such peace. 

 

Tim wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he was glad to be back at the beach. He lounged on a towel in the sand between his brother Kip and his girlfriend trying to finish his beer before it warmed. The day was a beautiful one, and he was glad he decided to tag along. He would be shipping off to the Middle East soon, and though he never said it, he was going to miss his brother.

Gutterson put the empty bottle down next to his towel and raised an arm up over his face, resting it across his eyes. He was tired and his arm was cool across his warm face. 

A nap, perhaps Tim thought as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
